Meaning
by averita
Summary: She has walked to her death many times before, each time with her eyes clear and chin held high. She is not afraid of death, but she is afraid. Adama/Roslin; spoilers for 4x02


He hears her sobbing in the next room, muffled and choked like she's trying to hold it in the way she usually does but can't. The sound of it sobers him up.

He feels old. Older than he's felt since the end of the worlds. He can feel his skin sagging and hair graying with each breath he takes, as though he is the sick one. He is dying too, a little more each time Lee shakes his hand, each time Kara meets his eye, each time _she _slumps in her chair. If he's going to die anyway, he wishes he could do so in her stead.

She had stood in this same room only hours ago with a gun to her head, stoic and terrified and nauseous all at the same time. When he touched her back she hadn't tensed. Her entire body was already held taut. But Laura is not afraid to die. She has walked to her death many times before, each time with her eyes clear and chin held high. She is not afraid of death, but she is afraid.

And now that he's called her on it, that fear swallows the room, forcing them apart as physically as hospital curtains, titles, and knowing eyes in CIC. It's always two steps back.

The sobs have stopped. He pictures her, face stained with exhaustion and tears, maybe closing her eyes and swallowing away the last of it all. He can see her so clearly in his mind that when she is in front of him, he is not sure she is there at all.

"Laura," he says, and stands. She looks at him with such intensity that it feels like a glare, one he knows he deserves but at the same time isn't subjected to. "Laura, I'm –"

"Will it?" she cuts him off hoarsely. Her eyes are red, cloudy. "Will it be meaningless?"

It strikes him how sick she looks. When she was dying the first time, the weight of her responsibilities was heavy, but held her down like an anchor, something to keep her grounded. Now they hunch her shoulders, make her hands shake, and line her face more deeply than he's ever seen. He shakes his head. "Never."

She nods, once, and looks away. She is never the first to look away.

_Bill, you've got to face this. You're so afraid to live alone. _

Setting down the glass he is still holding, he touches her cheek and traces the corner of the bitter smile she smiles. "It could never be meaningless," he repeats, and pulls her to him. She is still shaking. "And you will not die alone."

He feels the gasp against his shoulder, the trembling breath that hitches halfway and releases itself in a sob. "Bill," she whispers, clutching the open collar of his jacket. "Bill, I wish I could promise you the same thing."

He tucks her more tightly against him as she winds her arms around his shoulders and lifts her head. Their foreheads touch; she takes a deep breath, then another and another until finally her breathing is steady. When he hooks a limp strand of hair behind her ear, she closes her eyes and a quiet tear slips through.

"I'm so sorry," he tells her brokenly. "So sorry."

He holds her for a long time, one arm around her waist and the other beneath her hair. Slowly she becomes boneless and heavy in his arms as she sinks into a not-quite-sleep, head nestled in the crook where neck meets shoulder. When he is the only thing keeping her upright, she exhales a contented sigh. "You should get some sleep," he says quietly in her ear. "You have an early appointment with Cottle."

She nods, but waits a moment before slowly straightening, as though the actual act of moving away hadn't quite processed. When she walks her steps are halted and painful.

"What are we going to do about Kara, Bill?" she asks wearily, making her way with him to the rack, and though she doesn't need it he helps her into bed. "I still won't trust her."

"I know," he says. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. We'll figure something out."

She smiles tiredly and takes his hand, pulling him to sit beside her. "We always do, don't we?" She shifts over to make room for him. There are already strands of hair on the pillow, and he squeezes her fingers.

"Yeah," he agrees. "We always do."


End file.
